Slow molasses drip under a tipped-up crescent moon.

Napoleon Boner Pirate

old napoleon boner pirate
after josephine expired
ate up cake when he was tired
and he cried, he said it, there.
still, his boner parted waters
like the thighs of noble’s daughters
after sexy czechs were slaughtered
in their walrus underwear.

with the hitmen’s halvsies tallied,
all the boner pirates dallied
and the prussian wenches rallied,
throwing head locks on their men,
while the swarthy juden gathered
in their ghetto, cotton mather
held his boner, said i’d rather
flog a witch with this, again.

then cristina ricci’s titties
caused a fluster ‘mongst the biddies
gathered in the fallen cities
that napoleon had sacked.
with his cake and stumpy boner,
he was something of a loner,
and he said that he would phone her,
but he never called her back.

able was he, ere he saw her,
elba, maiden in her drawers,
so he bent her o’er a saw horse
and he hi-ho-silvered off,
but afflicted with the bit rot,
he was left to die on his cot,
as the surgeons sniffed his piss pot
and said ‘turn your head and cough’.

and the boner pirate died then
on the island where he’d tried men,
found them guilty as they cried when
all their sentences were read
marched them straight into the ocean
from his boat, he loved the motion,
rubbed his tuna down with lotion,
rubbed it hard until it bled.